Hope Springs Eternal
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: Its third time lucky for Anne Boleyn, as she delivers the King a healthy baby boy. So surely, her position is now secure? Surely, nothing can go wrong? Alternate Universe, and written as an anti-dote to a rather more depressing fic I'm writing. Please R&R
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I got really depressed while writing an historic fiction about Anne Boleyn that doesn't break with history, to any great extent, (meaning she will suffer her historic fate). So, I cast around for ideas to cheer myself up, and decided to try my hand at Alternate Universe, again (I had so much fun with my other AU story). I am extremely nervous about this fic, so constructive criticism is most welcome, if you care to do so. Thank you, and I hope people enjoy this.

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><p><strong>Chapter One: She Delivered Her Saviour.<strong>

Princess Elizabeth glares at the chair leg with a fierce intensity that is so reminiscent of her father, King Henry, that Queen Anne can't help but laugh. The little Princess was impervious to her surrounding carers, however, and continued to glare at the chair leg, as though she were about to ask it to step outside, and settle their dispute like real men. She reaches out with one little hand, and grips the offending furniture, making her pudgy knuckles whiten, and hauls herself off her bottom and up on to her feet. Queen Anne, and her attendants fall silent. As one, they all lean forwards in unison, with a silent question poised on all their mute lips. 'Will she?' They all ponder. 'Will she take her first steps?'. Silently, each woman in the room urges the Princess onwards, none more so than Queen Anne herself, who's hands are clasped tight, her breath stuck in her throat.

Elizabeth, her face as red as her hair, now, wobbles as she lets go of her support. Madge Shelton, quick on the uptake, rushes over to the infant Princess with her arms out stretched, to catch her should she take a tumble. But, even by the time Madge closes the gap between herself and the child, she can see her assistance is quite unnecessary. With legs of jelly, Elizabeth takes her first, wobbling steps across the rushes that line her mother's Privy Chamber floor. Anne gasps as her heart bursts with pride and the whole room breaks into rapturous applause as the Princess swiftly finds her feet, toddling across the flagstones. Anne slides cautiously from her chair, careful to mind her bump, and gets down on her knees to be level with her daughter.

"Elizabeth!" Her voice rings across the chamber, and the little girl suddenly stops, her bright, blue eyes dart about the chamber, searching for the source of the noise. "Elizabeth, come to Mama sweeting!"

Anne claps her hands together, trying to give the toddler a clue, and throws her arms wide open again. As Elizabeth totters around to face her mother, her little face lights up in a beam. In a sudden surge of excitement, she starts to rush, and loosing her delicate footing, she topples onto the cold, hard flagstones.

"Bessie!" Anne gasps, and her mother's protective instincts kick in immediately as Elizabeth's shrill cries fill the air.

Anne, weighted down by her swollen stomach, pulls herself up as swiftly as she can to rush to the aid of her fallen child. But, as she goes to move forward, the blood rushes to her head, feeling faint she swoons, and trips. Instinctively, she throws her hands out in front of her to catch her fall, but she still hits the ground with a sickening thump, and a guttural grunt.

"Your Majesty!" The women cry out as they rush to her side, and start levering her back up.

Anne groans as a pain twists its' way up her belly, clawing at her insides and snatches the breath from her body.

"I can't breathe!" She gasps, clawing at her belly. Someone, she thinks it is Nan Saville, rushes from the Chamber, calling for the Physician at the top of her lungs.

Anne's eyes widen in wild desperation as she doubles over with the pain. A great wave of nausea washes over her as she grapples at her voluminous kritles, reaching between her legs, fully expecting to feel the hot, fresh blood tipping from within herself. She is dry, and she finally sighs deeply with relief. As she is finally lowered into a more comfortable seat, the nausea returns with a vengeance, and she gags and wretches. Acrid vomit hits the flagstones, splashing over Madge's skirt hems, and shoes.

"Good lord, Madge, I am so sorry," She pants, wiping her mouth unceremoniously with the back of her hand. The pain subsides along with the nausea, leaving her fatigued, but exceptionally relieved. Madge waves her apologies away as she lifts the Queen's legs to lie her flat on the chaise lounge.

"Majesty, drink this," Madge pushes a goblet of strong wine into the Queen's hands. "It will calm your nerves, and help preserve the baby."

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><p>Henry's profile is illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire that burns in the Queen's bedchamber. He stands, silent and ominous, as the physician fusses over Queen Anne; bombarding her with questions, when all she wants is to be allowed to go back to sleep. Henry casts the odd nervous glance over his shoulder, trying to catch what's being said between his doctor, and his heavily pregnant Queen. Giving up, he rubs at the dull ache that pulsates between his eyes, and swallows down the irritation that swells up in the pit of his belly.<p>

After what seems like an eternity, the Physician finally emerges, the man wears his relief on his face. He makes a low, sweeping bow to the King, and wrings his hands with glee.

"The heartbeat is strong, your majesty," He simpers up at Henry. "Provided the Queen takes plenty of rest, and takes no more excitements, or exertions, all should be well."

Without so much as a word of thanks, Henry waves the man away with a twirl of his hand. He stands, still silent, now with his back to the fire, so that Anne can only make out his slender outline. As the door clicks shut behind the physician, Henry paces forwards in slow, measured steps.

"How could you have been so foolish?" He asks, his voice icily calm, and looking down at Anne's prone body, stretched out on the bed.

"Don't you think I feel bad enough, already?" Anne retorts as tears of guilt spring into her eyes. She levers herself up in the bed, to see him the better. "My Lord, I can only apologise. I can't undo it."

Henry sighs as his arms fall limp at his sides. "Move up," He states baldly as he lays himself beside her on the bed. "Forgive me, darling. I was just so scared for the baby, and for you."

Relieved, Anne shuffles over to lay her face against his broad chest. Another argument, skilfully dodged. After having already suffered one miscarriage, another would have been disastrous. Henry would be justified in his anger at her having jeopardised this baby.

"I'm so sorry," She breathes the words into his chest, feeling the reassuring hammer of his heartbeat against her flushed cheek. Just as the rhythmic thud is lulling her to sleep, his voice jolts her back to consciousness.

"There's something I want you to do for me?"

"Anything, my love," She replies sleepily.

"I want you to go straight into your confinement. I know it's early, but it would be safer for the baby, and for you."

Confinement. An exclusively female world in which expectant mothers are shut away in a world of cloying, but benevolent, dictatorship. The windows are blocked, shutting out the sunlight. Tapestries of fluffy, mindless animals are hung around the walls, to give the babe something nice to look at as it slides it's way into the world, and takes it's first glance around. It is a brainless world where even certain topics of conversation are forbidden to the expectant mother. To compound it all, no matter what the weather, a blazing fire will burn morning, noon, and night. Nice in the winter, but oppressive, and stinking in the summer. It is insufferable, but, it is also necessary. And, she did say that she would do anything for him.

"Of course, Henry. First thing tomorrow," Anne skilfully masks the resentful sullenness from her voice, and consoles herself in the depths of her body's promise of sleep.

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><p>Confinement turns out to be every bit as dull as Anne remembers it to be. She lies flat on her back, her view mostly blocked by the vast, swollen expanse of her belly, and swelters in the heat of the fire. But, it starts earlier than expected. She awoke in the early hours of the morning, or so she thought, but it was impossible to tell when the windows were permanently blocked. The twisted sheets that were snaked about her legs were wet through, and it was more than simple sweat. Her waters had broken.<p>

No sooner does the realisation hit her, than does the gripping, searing pains of labour begin. Her scream brings out the whole room. Ladies burst into life, from where they were dozing on little pallet beds. Water is fetched, cloths are torn into strips, and Anne writhes in agony, her body contorted with the pulsing of her contractions. She feels like her belly is ripping itself in two, like there's an earthquake happening right inside her, and she will simply cave in on herself.

"Breath Your Majesty," A familiar voice soothes in her ear. Mary, her sister, newly reported for duty appears at her side, and Anne's new world of pain is punctuated with a ray of relief.

"Oh! Mary!" She gasps.

Mary, a mother of two herself, hoists Anne's knees up, positioning her for optimum birthing comfort, if comfort is the word for such an occasion. Meanwhile, Nan dabs at her inflamed brow with cool water, a blessed relief in the intense heat that hangs over the whole chamber like a foetid cloud.

Anne gathers herself. She stores up her energy, drawing strength from the waves of contractions that grip her body, and begins to violently bear down on herself. Pushing with all her might. Pushing like she was trying to force a breeze block through a needle's eye.

Despite the pain, soon she cannot even scream. Within hours of the labour beginning, she is simply too exhausted. She wants to let go, to slide into a deep, dark oblivion. But every time she feels her grip on reality loosen, another great tidal wave of pain will wash right over her, dragging her kicking and screaming back into the real world.

Mary, sensing her sister's distress, and therefore danger, leaps up on to the bed, and gets behind Anne.

"Push, Anne!" She calls out loudly. "Push!"

Anne doesn't need to be asked twice. She hunches up, and bears down once more, pushing with all her might, and finally, a shrill, wavering scream bursts out of her. Nan discreetly peers between the Queen's bloodied thighs.

"It's crowning, Your Majesty!" She cries, her eyes wide with elation.

"Come on Anne," Mary urges. "Keep it coming, Anne. Come on, push!"

"God's death, Mary!" Anne screams out as she pushes down again. "I'm doing the best I can!"

Another contraction, and Mary grips Anne's hand. Anne digs her nails deep into Mary's flesh, causing her to wince as the contraction builds. But, unlike the others, this doesn't subside. It seems to build, and build until Anne feels she shall surely die. She wants to call for a priest, to have her last rites read to her. But suddenly, in a great rush, something large, and wet slithers from between her thighs, and water, mixed with blood and fluids, rush down her legs in a torrent. Then, relief. No pain. No pushing. Just sweet, blessed relief the likes of which only newly delivered mother's would understand.

The moment seems to draw itself out as the midwives bustle with the baby. Cords are cut, and the babe is washed, and held high in the air for Queen Anne to see, as a thin, piercing cry like the mewling of a cat fills the room. Her baby has drawn it's first breath, and is crying. It is alive, and healthy.

"A boy!" Anne gasps, tears choking all other words that rush to her lips. Tears of joy, relief, love and happiness cascade down her cheeks. "A boy!"

All around her, the Ladies gush their congratulations. They pet her, and rub her back. Mary kisses and nuzzles her. But all Anne can see is her baby boy. He is the only thing that exists as she reaches out, and cradles him close to her heart. His pink, scrubbed face is just visible beneath the swaddling blankets.


	2. Sweetness

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the reviews, I really appreciate that! Now, I forgot to put a disclaimer on chapter one, so I best do that here. I don't own any of the characters, TV show, or history. I hope this builds on chapter one, and I hope everyone enjoys the story. Reviews/constructive criticism is most welcome, thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Sweetness.<strong>

Queen Anne moans softly as she awakens to the feel of crisp, clean bed linens brushing against her cheeks. She becomes aware of the sunlight filtering through her closed eyelids. Sunlight. That which had been blotted out of her life for so many weeks spent in the cocoon of confinement. She carefully opens her eyes, squinting as they adjust to the broad morning sunshine that streams in through the open windows. Open windows! A breeze on her exposed skin. Clean, fresh air from which she'd been deprived for what felt like an eternity. Then, already buoyant, the memory of the night before drops into the front of her mind like a stone. Her son. She'd had a son, whom she held briefly in her arms before exhaustion drained the life from her body, and she sank into the deepest of dreamless sleeps.

Everything else melts away as her gaze darts about the room. Ignoring the ache that gnaws at her lower body, she swings her legs out of the bed, and casts about for the great cradle, as she readjusts to her new balance. Steadying herself against the walls, she turns to an ante-chamber near her bed, and there it sits. Like a giant, ornate dolls house, made of solid oak with gold leaf decoration. Thick hangings shrouding it's precious contents from ill humours in the air, and sudden draughts that could bring on a potentially fatal chill. He sleeps inside it.

Anne didn't even realise that she'd been panicking until she draws back the hangings around the cradle, to reveal her peacefully sleeping Prince. She breathes a great sigh of relief as a devastating, all consuming tenderness takes over every fibre, and every sense that makes up her being.

"Sweet boy," She murmurs, reaching down and cupping the tiny scrap of humanity in her hands. As she carries him over to the seat in window embrasure, a part of her wants him to wake. She wants to look into those dancing blue eyes, and see them all over again, as though it were the first time.

"I thought you were just a dream," She talks softly, willing him to awaken. "I thought that when I awoke, this morning, I would touch you, and my hand would pass right through you, like a ghost." She feels the bulk of him. Soft, but whole, and so very reassuringly real. "You are here, and you are real, and you are mine."

She lowers her head, and brushes the softest of kisses against his cheek. His skin, warm and moist against her lips, is so smooth. The kiss wakes him. He wriggles within his bindings, and his face scrunches up and he mewls at her. Gurgles that break her heart with their fragility. When he opens his eyes again, she notices for the first time, that he has distinctive black flecks in the sapphire pupils. A tuft of auburn hair peeps from beneath the bindings. He is Henry's son, through and through. Every detail of his being is seared into her mind's eye.

She lifts her baby son to her face, breathing in his rich scent. Savouring these precious moments before he is whisked away to join his sister in the Royal Nursery at Hatfield House. Behind her, footsteps approach quietly. Too heavy to be her ladies, she turns in her seat, finding herself looking into the sleep deprived face of her husband.

"Henry," She says his name, and when she tries to struggle to her feet, he raises his hand to stop her.

"No," He states, with pride, and devotion shining in his eyes. "Stay like that. Because, I've never seen anything so beautiful before in my life."

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><p>Anne and King Henry, breaching the rules of Churching, seclude themselves away with their son. Together, they lie stretched out on the bed, propped casually up on their elbows as they gaze down at their infant son, who lies between them. Released from his binding cloth, he wriggles at leisure, exercising his new found limbs with relish.<p>

"The Christening will be held in two days," Henry states as he pulls a face at the baby.

"Then we need to name him, now."

Henry rolls over to lie flat on his back and sighs. "I thought I knew. But, he doesn't look like an Edward, or a Henry."

"He looks exactly like you!" Anne cries, wondering if her husband disputes the paternity.

"Oh, I don't mean that!" Henry blushes furiously, realising his faux pas. "I mean, I want something original for him. Not something thats' gone before."

They both slip into a thoughtful silence. All the usual boys names slide in, and straight back out, of both their minds. Thomas is a name that will bring out virtually the whole Palace, when called aloud. Richard is unlucky. Edward's been done to death. Henry's gone off Henry.

"George," Anne suggests. "Patron saint of England?"

"Flies in the face of the Reformation, somewhat," Henry replies bluntly.

"Arthur. After your brother."

Henry thinks on it. He is reminded of the Great Matter. Of hearing his name over, and over again. But, he remembers the man who was his brother, too. He had always wanted to pay tribute to him, and as he thinks on the connotations of the name, he is won over. Let the past be in the past, but also be at ease with it. He looks up at Anne, his face lit up by a bright beam that makes his eyes glitter and crinkle at the corners.

"Arthur, Prince of Wales," Anne sighs wistfully, and her heart is suddenly set on it. It feels right.

"Arthur, King of England, Ireland, and France. Head of the Church in England, and Defender of the Faith," Henry replies. Arthur sounds right. "Arthur it is!"

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><p>Outside of the Palace, the conduits run with free wine for the citizens. Fireworks explode across the darkening skies, as the sun sets on Prince Arthur's first full day on earth. Royal Messengers burst from the Palace gates, mounted on huge war horses; as the twenty-one gun salutes blast the news of the Prince's birth all over the Realm. The news spreads faster than the plague. Spread by the incessant chiming of the Church bells that toll out, and the thousands of choirboys voices as they sing out the Te Deums in celebration of the Prince's arrival. For another generation, England is saved. The future is secure. Anne has made good her promise, and the King is vindicated in the lengths he went to to marry her; now that the skeletons of civil war have been confined, once again, to their dusty crypts, shrouded in the cobwebs of time.<p>

Enemies fall into a mutinous silence, while supporters, (their ranks newly swelled), rejoice in every street, in every city, town and county, as the messengers arrive from the Palace to read out the proclamations. From London, to Dover, to France. North, to York, Hull and Scotland. West, to Bristol and Wales. The news spreads like wildfire throughout England, and beyond. Prince Arthur has returned. He is among them. If the populace go to the Abbey at Glastonbury, they expect to find King Arthur's tomb empty. The news of Queen Anne's glory, is spread like the pollen on the wind.

Forty eight hours after Prince Arthur's birth, and they begin to arrive at Hampton Court. A great, twisting snake of people, like pilgrims, wending their way to witness the Christening of the Prince of Wales. Every Duke, Marquis, Earl, Baron, and Knight in England suddenly descends on the Court. Whether a friend, or foe, of the Boleyn's, they dare not absent themselves from the events that are unfolding in London.

In recent days, Carthusian Monks had suffered full traitor's deaths for their refusal to acknowledge King Henry as head of the Church in England. Sir Thomas More, and Bishop Fisher had been beheaded in self-serving acts of martyrdom. But all of that had been over-shadowed by the birth of the Prince. Even after the pomp of the Christening, the jousts, tournaments, feasts and masques, will stretch on for weeks. All bad news buried in a landslide of festivities. The King himself will take to the lists, and ride out in the name of Queen Anne, to uphold her honour, and defend her name. She will tie her favours to his wrists, and swell with pride as he thunders down the tilt yard. Because the unhappy past is forgotten, and eclipsed by the ever rising sun of the future.

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><p>The day of the Christening dawns bright and sunny. Queen Anne, still being churched, sits in the Queen's Chapel's ante-chamber, nursing her son. While no one is looking, she lifts her son to her breast, and he smiles ecstatically as he latches on straight away.<p>

"Good boy," She coos down at him as he suckles. But, the sensation in her breast soon starts to burn. "Ooh! Ouch!"

She'd been emboldened to breast feeding after sneakily changing a nappy while they'd been left unattended. Normally, she would have been furious about it. But, it afforded her time alone with her baby boy, and she had been the same with Elizabeth. She was more than grateful for the negligence of her servants. But, this breast feeding lark wasn't as easy as it looked. Soon, her nipple was burning with friction pains as Arthur's gummy mouth suckled madly. Anne bore it for as long as she could endure, before gently withdrawing her breast.

"There there," She sighs as she wraps him up in his Christening gown. She fastens the laces at the back, and notices a small, cherry shaped birthmark on his shoulder blade. Leaning down she kisses it gently, and adds it to her mental repertoire of the things that make her son uniquely hers. Admiringly, she holds him up in his Christening gown, and beams broadly before Henry eases himself around the rood screen, and into the Chamber. He looks every inch the King of England as he stands before her, gazing down at his son.

"It is time," He says as he gathers Prince Arthur in his strong arms. "I promise, as soon as the Ceremony is done, I will bring him straight back to you."

She wishes them luck as she watches the two of them disappear into the Chapel. Already, even though the Prince is out of her arms for five minutes, she feels like something is missing.


	3. The Sceptre And The Orb

**Author's Note:** First of all, thank you again for the reviews and encouragement. It means a lot. Secondly, I'd like to state that I don't own the show, the history, or the characters. I hope people enjoy the story, and thank you, again!

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: The Sceptre And The Orb.<strong>

The gifts are stacked almost to the ceiling. "Aren't we popular, all of a sudden," Anne mumbles under her breath as she reaches out, selecting a box at random. She places it on the table, and lifts the lid to reveal a gold rattle, ornately engraved with an intricate, interlocking pattern. It's handle is shaped like the Coronation sceptre, and the bulbous, rattle part is shaped like the orb, complete with cross. Admiring the craftsmanship of the toy, she gives it a shake and giggles at the sound of the dried beans clattering around inside it. She nods in approval and walks back into her small, chapel ante chamber, and places the toy in Prince Arthur's cradle. She pauses to listen to the voice of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, performing the Christening ceremony on the other side of the rood screen. Behind her, the door opens, and and intrudes on her musings, as a familiar, welcome voice calls out.

"Sister."

"George!" Anne almost runs into his arms, raising him from the bow he was half folded into. "Oh George. I missed you. But, why are you not at the Christening?"

"I wanted to see you," He replies, smiling apologetically. "How are you, anyway?"

"Oh, I'm fine. The Prince is thriving," She replies, leading him over to her favourite window seat.

"I know the baby is fine, I asked how you were."

As they settle down by the window, Anne regards him closely. Even after the tumultuous few years they've had, he still only thinks of her. While everyone else around her changed, deferring to her first as a future Queen, then several years later as the Queen herself, George and she were only ever siblings. Brother, and sister. Joined at the hip, and the harbourers of all their secrets. He was her rock, her port in a storm, and at moments like this, she remembers and appreciates him for it, all over again.

"I have never been happier in my life," She smiles. "The birth was agony, but worth every moment for Arthur's sake. The King now looks at me like I'm some sort of Goddess, and he just dotes on our boy!"

"So, everything is all right between you two, now?" He asks, trying to keep his tone casual. The memories of Anne's rages against Henry's mistresses were all too fresh in his mind.

"He's sent that Seymour girl away weeks ago," Anne replies, disguising her triumphant smile. George lets out a bark of laughter.

"You won't have heard," He replies, still guffawing. "Thats' not the half of it. Sir John Seymour was carrying on with Catherine Filiol, the wife of his eldest son, Sir Edward. That's the real reason why the pasty-faced little sheep has gone from Court."

Anne, reminded suddenly of how much she missed the court gossip, looks duly scandalised. "No wonder she's gone, then. You know how Henry is about other people's indiscretions. Anyway, forget her, and tell me this. Is Lady Mary in at the Christening? Arthur is her step-brother, and her future King. For her sake, she better show some loyalty."

"God no," George snorts, as though surprised that she even bothered to ask. "Let the girl stew in her own foul juices in Hunsden, until her mother dies, which I hear will be soon. Maybe then, free from malign influence, she'll be more responsive?"

"Perhaps," Anne sighs, her expression is indifferent. Her son has secured her, and she need fear no one, now. "Tell me, who is there?"

George knows she isn't talking about their friends. "Well, the Poles are all here. The Exeter's are here, carrying rich gifts to over-compensate for their earlier recalcitrance. Margaret More was here, for some reason. But I doubt she was here for the Christening. Oh, and Henry Percy was here. Probably to show there's no hard feelings for casting him off in favour of the King."

"That wasn't my choice!" Anne retorts. At the time, the pain of their separation had grieved her sore. She had wept herself to sleep, night after night. Looking back now, it almost made her smile. "Is Sir Thomas Wyatt present?"

"Oh, yes! His love for you is sprung, and spent a long time ago," George pulls a mock-love lorn face, making her laugh into her sleeves.

"Enough of this," Anne cries out exaggeratedly as she climbs to her feet. "Come and inspect the Prince's presents with me, and be done with this talk of our enemies, and embarrassing past."

Together, they rifle through the boxes, like restless children before the new year's celebrations. They run their hands down great lengths of fine fabrics. Taffetas, silks, and rich velvets of every colour. Great, standing cups of silver and gold, glitter in the early afternoon light that spills through the chamber windows. Every so often, servants in Tudor livery, bear in yet more gifts from the Prince's well wishers. Every time she sees something small, and that she likes, she carries it over to the Prince's cradle, so he can play with his new toys when his father brings him back. Little ribbons, toys, and even the new gowns are laid out for him, with his Uncle George's help.

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><p>By two in the afternoon, the Christening had been concluded. Arthur, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and Earl of Chester, has been welcomed into the Christian flock by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, himself. Within minutes, Henry bounds into Queen Anne's chambers. Elizabeth toddling after him, now steady on her feet, and exhausting her Governesses on a daily basis. The Prince is carried in the arms of the Duke of Suffolk, his Godfather, who deposits him carefully into his great cradle, before making a discreet exit.<p>

"Anne!" Henry calls out to where Anne sits with George at her side. "You'll come to the jousts, won't you?"

"You know I'd love to," She replies sadly as she bobs a small curtsey. "But, I'm tired. And I missed my boy!" She leans into the cradle, rocking him gently and making sure he was settling, before turning back to Henry. "Perhaps, tomorrow?"

Henry's face crumples, making her soften considerably. "George, you'll be there won't you? Tell your Sister what she'll be missing!"

"Just come for a few hours," George coaxes her, placing his arm around her shoulders. "The wet nurse, and the rockers are all here for Arthur. He can spare his mother for a few hours."

Anne's resolve weakens. George tries to challenge her into it, like a game of dare. But, Henry looks at her with the expression of a kicked puppy, and her heart melts.

"I'll be watching you from the balcony," She feebly counters. "Look, I have new favours stitched for you!"

She waves the limp silk ribbon of blue before his face, and has no effect at all. He arches his brow even further, silently imploring her to relent, and come and watch him. At times like this, he is like an overgrown boy, and she adores him all the more for it.

"But, I want you to watch me from the stands," Henry whines, he squeezes her hands, and pulls her down onto the bed beside him, kissing her passionately, oblivious to the presence of George. "You're my prisoner now, Lady Perseverance. And I say you must come."

A flustered George, blushing to the roots of his hair, flaps about before clearing his throat and beating a hasty retreat. Henry, meanwhile, wraps himself close around Anne. She lets herself fall against his broad chest, laughing, and laughing for love, happiness, life and joy. "Yes!" She manages to choke the word out between laughs. "I surrender!"

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><p>Anne winced as the Duke of Suffolk's lance crashed into her brother's breast plate. Both riders lurched violently in the saddle, but somehow managed to cling on. A draw. The pages clear the tilt yard, and she leans forwards to the edge of her seat as Henry takes up his position. She could just make out the little blue ribbon fluttering in the breeze from the end of Henry's lance. Unconsciously, she crosses fingers, and toes. She will burst with pride if he wins, but die from fright if he falls. But that was all part of the sport.<p>

Opposite King Henry, is his favourite jousting partner. A man who could be relied upon to give as good as he gets; Henry's Groom of the Privy Chamber, Henry Norris. King Henry may have been the best jouster in the realm, in his youth, but he isn't getting any younger; something Anne well knows, even if Henry himself doesn't. With her heart in her mouth, Anne fixes her eye on her husband. His huge, Destrier horse stamps restively at the sand beneath it's hooves, and jitters from side to side. Finally, the starter's flag falls.

Moments later, and the two men are charging down the lists. Anne's eyes fix on the blue ribbon, her knuckles whitening as she grips her arm rests, with her heart hammering in her throat. Norris's lance pole smashes into Henry's chest, knocking him clean out of his saddle. Anne's scream is lost among the roar of the crowds that explodes from the stands as Henry's horse comes crashing down, too, and rolls right over him, crushing his plate armour at the leg.

She is transfixed. Rooted to the spot in pure terror as all about her people surge forwards, and leap-frog across the safety rails. Henry's limp, motionless body is soon surrounded by a swarm of physicians and horrified on-lookers. She watches helplessly as his body is conveyed to the pavilion tent.

Numb, nauseated, Anne moves forward, clinging to the handrails of the stands for support. Her legs are like jelly. Like Elizabeth's when she took her firsts steps.

"Anne!" George's voice calls out, and she sees him running towards her.

"No," She heaves a dry sob as she sinks to her knees in the churned up mud. "No, no, say its' not so!"

"He's breathing," George blurts out as he falls to his knees before her, wrapping his arms tight around her shoulders. "His pulse is weak, but the physicians are with him now. I'm to take you back inside."

But, as George tries to haul Anne back to her feet, she puts up a fight. "I'm not leaving him," She hisses, digging her heels into the mud. "Not like this."

"Anne, please, there is nothing you can do," He pleads, but already he can see that resistance is futile. Instead, he tries a compromise. "Look, come to the Chapel, and we can pray. Please, anything but stay out here, fearing the worst."

Reluctantly, Anne lets herself be led away to the small Chapel that was still decked out for Arthur's Christening. All the way there, she cast furtive glances over her shoulder at the tent where he lay, out cold, and in the hands of God. Her husband. Her romantic lover, who pursued her across lands, and seas for one moment in her arms. She could no more imagine life without him, than she could imagine what it must be like to fly without wings.

The Chapel is silent. Tall, beeswax candles burn, making a row of little, dagger point lights at the foot of the high altar. The statue of the crucified Christ is lit ominously from below, casting his gaunt features into shadow. Anne doesn't know how long she knelt before that statue, her knees pressed hard against the cold flagstones. George knelt beside her, his head bowed in silent prayer. At one point, even Cromwell entered the Chapel to offer a prayer. A small, but welcome gesture of solidarity. His frantic schedule only afforded him a few minutes of meditation, and the haste of his departure only made her fear all the more.

She tried to wipe her mind blank, and focus every ounce of her concentration on her prayers. She lay flat before the Virgin Mary in a manner of complete supplication to her God. She closed her eyes, and wept. Silent tears dripped from her eyes, pooling on the ground beneath her face. Minutes ticked into hours. The sky darkened. Time passed slowly by.

The door crashed open, and frantic footsteps ran wildly down the aisle. Both Anne, and George, leapt to their feet in alarm, and found themselves looking into the frantic face of Lady Madge Shelton.

"Your Majesty, thank God I've found you," She blurts out as she clasps Anne's hands. Her eyes are wide with terror, and her hands tremble violently, even as they grip Anne's.

"Madge, what is it?" Anne glares at the girl as her mouth drops open, but them falls mute, struggling for the right words to say.

"Madge, what's happened!" Anne demands, and she is ready to slap the girl senseless by the time she finally finds her tongue again.

"He's gone!" She screams, falling to her knees as her voice reverberates around the fan vaulted ceiling.

Anne feels her whole world caving in on itself. A slow, creeping terror wraps it's icy tendrils around her heart. "You mean, he's dead?" She asks, disbelieving. Refusing to believe it.

"I don't know!" Madge sobs, verging on hysteria.

"What do you mean you don't know? For crying out loud, girl!" George bellows at the hapless lady, and shakes her violently. Anne is struck dumb, as though her brain has shut down and simply refusing to process any more information. She knows it doesn't make any sense, but thats' as far as she can get.

"We checked his cradle, and he is gone!" Madge blurts out as she throws George's arms away from her. "We checked, and we searched the whole of the Privy Chamber. Prince Arthur is gone, and we don't know where!"

Anne's body sways. She sees her world tip to the side, like the swaying of a ship on a stormy sea. She sees the floor moving rapidly towards her face. Not even George catches her fall, as she collapses into a dead faint.


	4. The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story. I really appreciate it, and I'm so happy people are enjoying the story. I apologise for being evil, too. Although, if I'm honest I really rather enjoy being evil. Anyway, I don't own any of the characters, show, or the history and this is done for purely for the love of creative writing/historic personages. Please read, and review. Thank you, again to everyone!

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: The Hand That Rocks The Cradle.<strong>

King Henry's head spins like child's top as he rolls off the table upon which he awoke, surrounded by worried faces all staring, wide-eyed, down at him. Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, reaches out a steadying hand to guide the King as he finds his feet after several hours of unconsciousness, and whispers words of encouragement in his ear. The Duke's relief was etched into his face, but it was a relief tinged with the dread of the news that he knows he cannot delay in conveying to his oldest friend, and King.

"Out!" He commands imperiously to the sea of faces in the pavilion. "Out now!"

"Charles..." Henry's words trail off as he watches the people file out of the pavilion. He brings his hands up, and presses them close to his temples, as though that might stop the wild spinning. "Charles, what happened? Where am I? Where's the Queen? Where's Prince Arthur?"

To play for time while the the last few bodies shuffle out of the tent, Charles eases Henry back down on to the table, urging him to sit and rest. His heart had palpitated at the mention of the Prince, and the latest news reared up at the back of his mind like a monolith. He wets his dry lips, and imposes a semblance of coherence onto his swirling thoughts and feelings.

"The Prince has been removed from his nursery room," Charles starts with the bare facts, and makes no attempt to dress the matter up. "The whole Palace is being searched, and I assure Your Majesty that no stone-"

"Wait, wait!" Henry cuts across him, holding up his hand for silence. "What do you mean 'taken'? By who? To where? On who's authority?"

His hands go back to his head, as his mind now spins with the confusion of what the Duke is trying to explain to him. He thinks that perhaps one of the nannies has wandered off with him, and forgotten to inform the Queen. This is surely some mistake?

"He's been abducted," Charles states firmly, watching carefully for Henry's reaction. The King pitches forwards, as though the Duke had punched him in the stomach. He seems winded, and a great wave of nausea washes over him. Charles reaches out to grab him, before he topples to the beaten earth floor, just as the King vomits copiously over him. Well, the Duke reasons, at least he's alive.

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><p>Queen Anne paces the floor of her Privy Chamber like a caged animal. Up and down, back and forth, she wears a hole in the Turkey carpets that line her chambers. Her face is fixed in a scowl, and she chews absent mindedly at the tip of her index finger, while she goes through it all in her mind. Every action, every step she took, and every place that Prince Arthur had been, re-plays repeatedly in her mind. Her Ladies flinch from her as she passes them by, as though she could lash out at any moment. But, Queen Anne's mind is far, far away as she tries to process everything that has happened in the space of one afternoon. Lady Shelton, still trembling, sits by the open fire, with Lady Saville at her side. Both are silent as their eyes track the Queen's restless progress as she paces to and fro, until finally Anne stops, and fixes them with a steely eyed stare.<p>

"Nan, would you go and see if there's any more news about the King? And find the man in charge of the search. I want news of my son!"

Although its' only been ten minutes since the Queen last sent someone out scouting for news, Nan is more than happy to oblige. The atmosphere in the Queen's Apartments had been brittle. Now that darkness had fully descended, and time had leapt by in sprints with no news of either King Henry, or the Prince, the atmosphere had deteriorated to extent where it was akin to mourning. Nan sets aside her embroidery, and bobs a low curtsey which Anne ignores, before vacating the chamber.

"Madge, tell me again what happened?" Anne asks, but before the girl can draw breath to answer, Anne continues to prattle. "You left the jousts as you couldn't bear to watch Henry Norris ride out against the King, so went to check on the Prince. That was about an hour after we left him with his wet nurse. When you got there, you found the wet nurse unconscious, and bleeding; and the Prince gone. When you got back to the jousts, that must have been when the King had had his accident, as you said the whole place was in confusion, with people running about everywhere?"

Madge nods her head, and takes up the story.

"I couldn't find you among the crowds, so I searched in the pavilion tent," She explains, forcing the words from her mouth, and grasping to remain comprehensible. "I saw them take the King there, and so I thought that you were bound to be there, too. But the Duke of Suffolk chased me out, and I couldn't see you in there, anyway. I didn't have time to argue with the Duke, not that I would dare to, so I ran back to the Palace to look for you. I saw Master Secretary Cromwell heading towards the Chapel, but he shrugged me off when I tried to catch hold of him, and he vanished into a crowd before I could try for a second time to get him to listen. Everything, everywhere was in chaos because of his majesty's accident, as they all said that he was like to die from being crushed by his horse. None had an inkling that the Prince was missing, and they didn't have time for me!"

Anne flinches at the hint of Henry's death. Although Arthur's abduction had swept the accident clean out of her mind, for the most part, if Henry died, she knows she will collapse, and suffocate beneath the weight of her grief. It would close over her, like the waters of the Styx, and drown her with the same ease with which she slipped into this world. Both Arthur, and the King... Her thoughts trail off into a barren hinterland that she simply cannot imagine.

"What about the wet nurse?" Anne asks, trying to remain focussed on her child.

"There was blood pouring out of her head," Madge suppresses a violent shudder as she recalls seeing the young woman lying there, her arms still up before her face, as though warding off blows while lying on the ground. "She was before the Prince's Cradle, and she fell trying to protect him."

"Have the physicians seen her? She is our only witness."

"They took her, but they said she will not live out the day. But, Your Majesty, the guards have been arrested and conveyed to the Tower. Maybe they will have information?"

"They'd left their posts, Madge!" Anne wails in frustration at the thought of it. Everyone had been celebrating the Prince's birth. The mood at the Palace was the best it had been since Henry first came to the Throne, almost twenty-eight years ago. She had laughed when she saw even the King's own guards drinking and flirting with wenches. She wanted them to do it. She wanted everyone to drop their duties and join the parties. To celebrate the dawn of a new era right along with her. Now, she was ready to hang them all with her bare hands.

"Come with me," Anne commands Madge as she makes for the door. "I want to check the nursery, again."

"What about Nan? She'll back with news of the King, soon?"

"She'll still be here when we get back," Anne replies, already reaching for the door handle, when the door flies open, sending the Queen staggering back.

"Oh! Nan, thank goodness its' you," Anne straightens herself out again, and finds herself looking up at a startled Cromwell.

"Not Nan, I'm afraid, Your Majesty," He replies, with a bow. "Someone left this on my desk. My secretary brought it to me in the Privy Council. A child's toy that could only have been for the Prince. I thought that it might hold some clue?"

He holds out his broad hand, and there glitters the golden sceptre and orb rattle that was a gift for Arthur. Stunned into silence, Anne mutely reaches out and takes it. Turning it over in the palm of her hand. It makes no noise.

"This was in Arthur's cradle," She frowns down at it. "I put this in his cradle so that he could play with it when he got back from the Christening. I remember rightly!"

She looks searchingly up into Cromwell's face, as though some answers are to be found there so long as she looks from the correct angle, or from the right distance. But, his face is a perfect symmetry of the confusion in her exhausted mind. With no more to add about the toy, he seeks to reassure her about the search,

"We're searching every home in London. The Palace is still being searched, so make sure you're ready for them, because they will even search your own chambers, as well as His Majesty's," He explains gravely, his eye still darting back to the curious rattle in Anne's hand. "We will get to the bottom of this. If the toy is anything to go by, they're playing games."

Anne looks back up at him as though startled. "Just find him, Cromwell," She pleads as she eases herself into the nearest chair. It had all seemed to abstract when Madge first blurted the news out to her as she knelt in prayer for the King. It felt like it was all happening to someone else. But now, with lazy guards arrested, wet nurses slowly dying, and searches happening right across the city, it was all becoming as real as the cold, grey morning light of a winter's day.

"Your Majesty, one more thing, and this will give you heart," He speaks gently to her now, as though she were a delicate, elderly lady. "The King lives, and will be right back by your side as soon as he can be. He will be fine."

A collective gasp of relief, as the women all sag under the first solid ray of hope finally hits them. Henry will find his son. She knows he will. Henry is the King, he can make anything happen, and God help everyone if it doesn't.

Another small bow, and Cromwell departs the Queen's Apartments, as he senses her need for privacy. Anne is left turning the rattle that no longer rattles over in her palm. The rest of the women watch her in silence as she studies it intently. She runs her nail along the join in the orb, before she realises that it can be twisted off. Her heart beat races as she grips the handle, and twists at the top half of the orb. Finally, as it unscrews, and drops to the floor at her feet with a clatter, and a neatly folded scrap of parchment falls into her lap. Whoever took Arthur, replaced the dried beans with the note, and left it on Cromwell's desk. Its' the only explanation. She is too numb with grief to even allow herself a surge of hope as she looks at the note. Whatever it is, whatever it says, it was held in the hands of the person who snatched her child. The thought of it nauseates her.

"What is that?" Madge asks, her voice distant, but Anne ignores her.

She flattens the note out in her lap, and reads aloud what is written in a spidery scrawl across the creased page:

"My feet are mired deep beneath the surface of the earth, but I can reach to the heaven's at my tallest point. Deep within my stony bosom, I hold the secrets of the whole of London. The great and the good lie entombed in my heart. Death, the leveller of all things, is no stranger within my cold stone, vaults. Where am I? What am I? That which you seek will lie among his forefathers. Come alone, the day after tomorrow when the sundials stand in the shadow of six."

Anne folds the paper back up. Her mind, once again, seems to have shut itself down out of some sort of new acquired self preservation trick. Her lips move silently as she recites the words to the bizarre doggerel that was scrawled on the paper, just as Nan returns. She bursts through the door, out of breath and flushed deeply.

"Your Majesty, the King lives. He keeps being sick, and he is dizzy. His leg is bound up. But he lives!"

Nan seems to shrink within herself as her words drop into the heavy silence like stones down an echoing well.

"Have I interrupted something?"


	5. The Three Boleyns'

**Author's Note:** Once again, thank you for all your reviews and encouragement. It means a lot! I don't own the show, the history, or the characters. Please enjoy, and consctructive criticism/reviews are most welcome. Thank you!

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><p><strong>Chapter Five: The Three Boleyn's.<strong>

The three of them sat around a small table in the Queen's private apartments. Queen Anne, her eyes bloodshot, and lined with deep, dark circles, was silent as her two siblings read the note with the doggerel verse between themselves. George tries to conceal his dismay beneath an air of false optimism. Mary, on the other hand, seems genuinely hopeful. Anne had to admire her for it. For hours now, the three Boleyn's had scrutinised the note. Trying to place the handwriting. Trying to analyse the language, and the tone. Trying to make sense of the scrawl.

"So," Mary breaks the silence with an overly bright, cheery voice. "We still have until Six o'clock tomorrow to work out where this place is."

The other two give a silent nod, but speak no more. Mary drags the note across the table with an immaculately filed nail, and reads it through again. Once done, she lowers the note and absent mindedly flicks at the top left corner, making an irritating tat-tatting noise, while she bites into her lower lip. The snappy rebuke was on the tip of Anne's tongue when Mary suddenly spoke, and furthermore, spoke sense.

"Westminster Abbey is the best I can think of," She states. "I mean, thats' where most of his forefathers are buried. Its' vaults are deep below the earth, its' steeple is high up to the heavens. The whole of London goes to Confession there, hence the secrets. But, it's huge. We just need to figure out which of his forefathers he is among?"

George's face lights up as a penny drops in his mind. "The old King had his own private Chapel built there," He explains. "Only he and Queen Elizabeth of York are buried there. Also, its' totally separate to the rest of the Abbey. You have to go through a gate, and then down a flight of steps to get to it."

"The perfect place to hide a child," Anne whispers as the comprehension dawns in her face. "My God, Mary, thats' it!"

"Anne wait, we must tell the King of this," Mary insists. "He is organising the search of the City. We can send out a messenger and get him back within a few hours."

"Mary, no," Anne snaps, her tone more abrupt than she intended.

"Anne's right," George pipes up. "If the King hears of this, he'll go marching in there with the biggest army he can muster, and the Prince will suffer for it. We cannot take that risk."

Mary's brow furrows as she organises her thoughts into coherent speech. Although George and Anne had always been closer to each other, than to her, she knew Anne well enough to know where her thoughts will eventually lead her. She reaches for Anne's hand, again, and turns her face to talk directly to her.

"Anne, you mustn't go there," She is already pleading with the Queen. "We have no idea of what will await you there."

"Mary, surely you of all people understand," Anne replies, pulling her hand free. "What if it were your children? Would you not do the same?"

"Mary's right, Anne," George wades into the brewing argument. "For all we know, there could be a team of assassins waiting for you. Even if there isn't, the Prince could already be.."

"Dead," Anne finishes his sentence for him. Her voice toneless, her mind refusing to process the meaning, and numb to the implications.

"Anne, there is hope," Mary assures her, and shoots George an admonitory scowl. "If you want to do this, and without the help of the King, then the three of us can surely come up with something?"

Both Anne, and Mary turn straight to George. George looks back at them both like a hare about to walk into a trap.

"All right," He starts, just to prevent the silence from spiralling. "The three of us will ride out-"

"But the note," Anne gestures helplessly to the paper. "It said I have to go alone."

"Anne, we've discussed this! Please, let me finish!" George holds up his hand to silence any further protestations. "Mary, and I, will be riding out there with you. We'll also have one of our servants take an unmarked barge around the back of the Abbey, where the Crypts open out on to the river. When you get the Prince, take him down there, and we'll be waiting for you in the Barge."

"I have a suggestion, too!" Mary says. "I say we send spies out to scout the Abbey all through the day. No liveries, no badges, no uniforms. Make them completely anonymous. The Prince's hair is distinctive-"

"Mary, we can't order the arrest of every single person in London carrying a red haired baby!" George cuts in. But, before he can further, Anne interjects over him.

"No, Mary is on to something here," She states, leaning forwards in her seat. "We can have spies outside the Abbey, mingling with the crowds while I am inside. If I get into trouble, then I get send out a signal to them."

George nods, giving a small smile. Although the odds, and consequences of failure, are stratospheric, he is reminded of their childhood. Before the girls were packed off to Europe, and it had been the three Boleyn children against the world. Looking at Anne, sitting opposite him, he can see that formulating the plan has lit a spark of hope in her eyes. It's given her something to focus her raw, restless energy on.

"Any idea of who the culprit is, then?" George asks, glancing between the two of them. "Who has that much of a grudge against you?"

Neither of the women bother to reply to that. It really could be any one. From disaffected Yorkists, to disaffected Catherine of Aragon, or Princess Mary supporters. It could be angry Papists, or Reformers angry because the cause has not moved far enough, or fast enough. Anne had lain awake long into the night, going over, and over who was in the Palace that day. The only name that jarred was Lady Margaret More.

"George, you said that Margaret More was here the day the Prince vanished?" Anne asked, for clarification more than anything.

"She was, and she is heavily pregnant herself," George answers matter of factly, ruling her out straight away. "She was here to secure a pension from Cromwell for her mother, Lady Alice. Cromwell had already sorted it all out for her, so no sour grapes from that direction."

"That Seymour girl is definitely gone from Court?" Mary looks over to Anne.

"She's been gone for weeks, now. Family affairs," She gives a wry smile. "Besides, she wouldn't have the heart, or the stomach for it. Other than her, Lady Mary is ill at Hunsden. The Exeters have already been searched, and cleared. The same with the Poles. But even all of these people who hate us, I cannot imagine any of them doing this. They're deluded, but they're not suicidal!"

"This is pointless," Mary states firmly, her gaze darting between the two of them. "We can speculate until the cows come home, and we'll never move off square one. Now we have a plan, all could be revealed in a matter of hours. Let us begin preparations, now. George, you can commandeer the Barge, and I will rally our servants and friends. Anne, you check on the Princess, and make sure she is under armed guard at all times. Come what may, we must let nothing happen to her."

Both Anne and George look at their elder sister with a newly dawning admiration. Mary, the prettiest of the Boleyn's, had never been one for action, before. She seemed content with her fancy men, her beautiful gowns, and her dances. Now that tragedy had struck, she seemed to rise to the occasion with elegance, grace and unyielding faith, and optimism.

"You needn't look at me like that!" She snaps, but with a hearty laugh. "I'm a Boleyn before I'm anything else, and the Prince is of much Boleyn blood, as Tudor."

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><p>The columns of Westminster Abbey soar high above Queen Anne's head, reaching up to the fan vaulted ceiling; so high up, that if Anne craned her neck, she could barely see it. Her footsteps echo off the cold, limestone walls as she walks the length the aisle, as she passed the endless bays of pews in the awe inspiring Cathedral. She had been crowned here, just like all her predecessors. She had only ever seen the place filled with thousands of people. Now that it was empty, all she could imagine were the ghosts of the endless generations of people who'd trod the same aisles, stood before the same altar, and knelt in prayer to the same, blank-eyed statues of saints who looked down on her now. Their stony faces impervious to her plight, she comes to a halt before them, studying them intently. If these carvings really do work miracles, as the Bishop of Rome states, then they should do so now, or for ever hold their peace.<p>

Anne lowers the deep hood of her cloak, to reveal herself, and turns in circles, scanning the whole floor of the Abbey. No one moves, no sound is made, no baby cries. She strains her senses, trying to pick up any noise, or sign of human life beside her own. But there is nothing. Her heartbeat hammers, and her throat constricts with fear as she calls out in a tremulous voice.

"Hello!" The only answer is her echo, as it fades down the nave of the Abbey, bouncing off the columns before dropping into a silence.

Nothing. Not yet ready to admit defeat, Anne swoops around to the eastern end of the Abbey, and stops before the Altar there. Taking a lit torch from the wall, she leans across the altar, and a set of high, brass gates come into view. Replacing the torch, she hitches up her skirts, and begins climbing over it. Beyond caring about sacrilege, she hauls herself over to the other side. The light is blocked by scaffolding outside the high windows, but she can just make out the steps leading down to the Henry VII Lady Chapel.

She descends carefully, with one hand gripping the rail, and the other hoisting her skirts over her ankles, clear of her footsteps. Just a few short steps, and she is in the vault.

"Hello!" She calls again, turning in a wide circle. "Is there anybody here?" Her voice stronger with irritation, and desperation.

She turns her eyes onto the sad, bare tomb of King Henry, and his Queen, Elizabeth of York who died while playing the Russian Roulette of childbirth so many years before, when Anne was just a child herself. She runs her hand over Elizabeth's bronze face, reposed in eternal sleep deep beneath city streets. But there's no sign of the Prince. Without so much as a backward glance, she sweeps from the vault, and back up the stairs to the main body of the Abbey.

She emerges, breathless, onto the exact same scene that she had left. Anne knows she has been inside the Abbey for well over an hour. Inside the nave of the Abbey, the shadows lengthen as the sun sets outside the windows. It must be long passed six o'clock. Mary and George will be at the Crypts with the barge, ready to go by now. The spies will still be milling around outside, waiting, it seems, for nothing.

Dis-hearted, and desperate, but not yet willing to admit defeat, Anne takes one last tour of the Abbey. She takes it at a run. Not caring about the noise of her feet echoing around the Abbey. She searches over every pew, nave, and aisle. Behind every column, and in every shadowy corner of the ancient Abbey. Until she reaches the tomb of Edward III. There, at the feet of the old warrior King, lies a wicker Moses basket. The sudden realisation hits her hard. She'd been looking in the wrong place, all along. Both she (through her mother), and Henry are descended from Edward III, whereas Henry alone is descended from Henry VII and Elizabeth of York. This is Prince Arthur's forefather.

The basket is silent, and could even be empty. But, with her heart hammering in her throat, Anne moves over to where it sits. He could be sleeping, she thinks to herself as she gets closer. She holds her breath as she peers inside. All thats' there is another note. The note is pinned to a roughly shaped doll of straw, that has been stuffed crudely inside Prince Arthur's Christening gown. Anne's scream echoes off the fan vaults, high up in the heavens of the Abbey. It causes rats to scurry in alarm, and birds perched on invisible rafters to take sudden, emergency flight.

She snatches the note, tearing it off the straw doll, and flattens it out on the marble floor of the tomb. By the final rays of dying sunlight, she can just make out the same scrawl:

_"When you can't see the Churches for the Steeples, its' time to get a different perspective. _

_Come to the place where the mighty have fallen, and where the Queen's await their destiny, _

_and you may yet achieve your objective._

_Come on the longest day, _

_The Ravens will lead the way."_

"You tricked me!" Anne screams at the top of her lungs as hot tears spring to her eyes. No answer but the echo. "You lied to me, and you tricked me!"

Anger. She'd never known anger like it. She'd been led on a humiliating goose chase, and the kidnapper was tempting her into another, while offering no proof that the Prince was even still alive. She'd been heartbroken, she'd been numb, and filled with raw, weeping pain. But now she is angry, and that anger will find a vent.


	6. Chasing Tails

**Author's Note:** A big thank you to all who've read, and reviewed this story; your input means a lot. So thank you, thank you! Just so you know, I don't own any of the characters, the history, or the TV show "The Tudors". Hopefully, people will continue to enjoy the story. Reviews/Constructive criticism is most welcome. Thank you, again!

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><p><strong>Chapter Six: Chasing Tails.<strong>

It is the uncertainty that tears them apart. The doubts that gnaw most violently at their minds. Should they be grieving, or should they be searching? Perhaps both? For neither Anne, nor Henry will ever stop searching until they have their son's body, given him a Christian burial, and grieved their loss the same way as everybody else who loses a loved one. But they can't. All they have is a void. A void where their child should be. It is a fenced off space in their hearts.

One minute, they are resolute: Their son is alive, and all they have to do is crack the code and find him. The next moment, they will melt into each other's arms, and weep bitter tears into each other's shoulders: Their child is dead, and its' only a matter of time before his remains are found, and conveyed to them in a tiny casket, draped in the Royal Standard. Although, it is the worst possible outcome, it is still an outcome, nonetheless. Anything to end the doubts, and chasing of tails, and the running in endless circles, and searching for a very small needle in a very large haystack.

Anne will stand by the windows for long into the dark nights, looking out over the city, and wonder where he is. Somewhere beneath the sky, is all she can think of for an answer. Is he hungry? Is he cold? Does he know that something is wrong? Can he sense her absence? Surely, the Prince remembers her scent, and he will know that this person who has him now, is not his parent. When Anne does sleep, she will wake in the middle of the night, thinking she can hear a baby crying. But, its' just a dream, and reality smacks her in the face like the final insult of a row. Other times, sleep befuddled when she first wakes, she instinctively reaches out for the great cradle, and draws back the veils to reveal the emptiness. Then, that vast acreage of emptiness bursts the confines of the cradle, and engulfs her whole world. She could give birth to army of boys, after this, but children are not jewels. One cannot simply be replaced by another when misplaced. Her eldest boy was something unique to her, and more precious than all the jewels in England. His birthmark, his blue eyes with the black flecks. His rich, buttery scent. Anne remembers it all. When she closes her eyes, and breathes in deeply, it all comes rushing back to her.

Henry, dizzy from wine, drains another pitcher of Malmsey into their goblets, and the silence between them swells once more. Anne brings the goblet to her lips, pretending not to notice the furtive glances that Henry darts in her direction. She turns her face to the flames of the fire, wishing he would just speak whatever is in his mind.

"They're humiliating us," He states. Anne, fully aware of the fact, makes no reply. But Henry's voice jitters with impatience. A symptom of an on-coming emotional outburst. Still, Anne remains silent. "I mean, you can't possibly go running around after them. You risked your life once, I can't let you do it again."

With great difficulty, Anne doesn't roll her eyes. She sips at her drink, and Henry's babble slides over her like water off a duck's back, to a point.

"Its' obvious they're trying to lure you to the Tower to kill you-"

"But, if they wanted to kill me, then they could have done it at Westminster," Anne retorts, cutting across the King. "They could have just waited, and then killed me. There wouldn't even have been any witnesses."

Henry falls silent, and starts to knead at his brow again. "Who knows what's going on in this person's mind? All we know is, that they're dangerous."

Anne set down her goblet with a small sigh. He is right, although she can't bring herself to fully admit it. For all they know, the Prince is dead already. Or, he could have died the moment he was taken. It could be happening now, or tomorrow, or next week. The uncertainties come flooding back like a torrential downpour.

"What exactly are your men doing to find the Prince?" Anne asks as she looks across the room at her husband, who sits drinking himself into another stupor while everyone else does the searching.

"What do you mean by that?" Henry retorts with another deflective question. "We're doing everything we can to find our son, and I don't mean going off on a wild goose chase around Westminster. I mean, how do you know that whoever sent that note was even the person who has Arthur? They could've gotten that toy from anywhere, and decided to play a cruel joke on you!"

"Thats' not fair!" Anne's voice rings shrilly across the room. "With God as my witness, Henry, if you hadn't badgered me into going to watch you at those blasted jousting tournaments, none of this would have happened in the first place!"

Tears of anger and hurt spring into the King's eyes, and immediately Anne regrets what she has said. Her words are like a gun fired in anger. It only takes a second, but the exit wounds are deadly, and no amount of apologies can undo the damage.

"So this is my fault, is it?" Henry asks, his voice menacingly low as he rises to his feet, goblet of wine still in hand. "Who was it who left him with a bunch of incompetent maids?"

"Who hired the lazy, drunkards for guards?" Anne angrily retorts. "Who encouraged national drunkenness?"

"Oh blame me for everything then, why don't you?"

"Yes, I do, actually!" Anne screams, her face contorted with pain, and rage. "Face it Henry, you do the hiring, the firing, and all are accountable to you. We place our lives in your hands, rely on your judgement for our well being, and safety. For all you went through to get him, you let him down and now he's gone!"

"You spiteful old bitch! You left him, that's what you did. I didn't make you come with me to the jousts. I didn't make you leave him in the care of fools. You did that, Anne, not me!"

"How dare you?" Anne sneers, her eyes narrowing in disgust as she slowly closes the gap between them. "How dare you say those things to me? I love my children, and I have given you everything you ever wanted-"

"I tore my Kingdom apart for you!" Henry voice roars across hers. "Don't you dare stand there and tell me you're the only one who's ever made sacrifices for us. Have you forgotten those seven years, Anne? Have you forgotten all that I did for you? I gave you everything you have, and I can take it back in a trice, and don't you damn well forget that, Madam!"

Anne falls mute, and regards him coolly. "So, we're back to issuing threats, are we?" She lets out a bark of cold laughter. "What can you possibly do to me, what further hurt do you think you can inflict upon me, that hasn't already been done a hundred times in these last days?"

"He could be dead, and-"

"He is not dead!" Anne's voice is hoarse from shouting, cracked with the pain of her semi-loss. "He is a piece of me, Henry. And if a piece of me died, I would know about it."

Unable to bear it any longer, Anne wipes her tears on her sleeve and sweeps from the chamber, with a swish of her stiff linen skirts. She hears Henry's footsteps following hers, and breaks into a run, slamming the connecting door in his face, she lets herself fall against it, to stop him from following her into their Privy Chamber. He tries the door, she feels the oak jolting into her back as she slides down to the floor.

"Anne, please," Henry's muffled voice pleads from the other side of the wood. "Talk to me, please!"

But, Anne pays no heed, for what more can possibly be said between them. She abandons herself to her pain. The sobs are choked out from deep within her abdomen, and her whole body seems to convulse with the force of her tears. Voiding the grief she feels is like giving birth. She feels that same tremor within her belly, as though the pain had corporeal form, and was fighting to claw it's way out of her body. She feels like she is caught up in an emotional earthquake, and she will simply cave in on herself. And when the pain subsides, she will be left with the emptiness, again.

To compound matters, she and Henry are back as they were before before Arthur's birth. Tearing each other apart. Lashing out their anger on each other, and behaving like raging bulls. Bitter rows that always end with them trying to talk sense into each other from opposite sides of a slammed, and bolted door. Their hate has always matched their passionate love for one another, and the mix is incendiary. But, this was more than just another explosion in their passionate love for one another. This is real, this is pure tragedy. This could really tear them asunder.

Henry, she knows, looks twice at everybody he passes. He has ruled nobody out of the suspect list, and instead, he has ruled everybody in. He is scared, and she knows it. He feels every ounce of her pain, every bit of her grief. Now, on the other side of the door, she can hear him crying like a wounded animal, caught up in a trap. The more he struggles, the more he cries, the tighter the snare around his throat gets.

"Anne," He states, his voice a whimper. Anne's anger ebbs, and the tempest suddenly abates; just like it always does. A fresh wave of tears trickle down her face, glistening silver in the moonlight. Only a trickle, like she hasn't that many tears left to cry. Tears of guilt, and sorrow, for causing more pain, and more strife when they should be united. She knows he feels the same, now.

"Henry," She chokes his name out. Awkwardly, in stages, she releases her body from against the door, and eases it open. At first, she thinks he has walked away, but as she lowers her gaze, she sees him lying across the door way, curled up like a dog. His face is buried in his arms, trying to mask the tears that shake his whole body. "Henry," She repeats his name, and looks up at her through the mask of his grief.

Hesitantly, he pulls himself back up to his feet. For a moment they stand and look at one another. That unspoken understanding passes between them. It needs no words, as its' already mutually understood between them both. Nonetheless, Henry goes to speak. Anne presses her finger to his lips, and gives a small shake of her head. As though a spell has been broken, they collapse into each other's arms, and hold on to each other for dear life. They kiss each other deeply, and passionately. They grapple with each other in a vertical wrestling match as they pull, push and jostle one another to the bed, where they collapse on top of each other. Clothing is torn off, as limbs inter-lock. She splays her hips for him, and arches her back. Their love making is brief, but intense, and soon over. Leaving them breathless and giddy, but grateful for those few, brief moments of normality where, together, they can keep the wolves at bay.

Anne can still feel the heat of his body as Henry slowly catches his breath beside her. Her hand rests lazily over his breast, his arm curls around her waist. Finally, when he is able, Henry speaks with a renewed sense of purpose.

"We can't keep dancing to their tune, Anne."

"I know," She responds flatly, still catching her breath.

"The longest day is the summer solstice. The place is the Tower. We'll be there. You, and I," He explains, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from her face. She raises a small smile. "Because I can't do this without you, and you can't do this without me. But together, we always get our way."

She looks back at him, with her eyes sliding in and out of focus with fatigue, mental and physical. Her smile falters with weariness. She knows he's right. She knows that when his blood is up, there'll be hell to pay.

* * *

><p>"Letter, Your Majesty," Madge Shelton's voice chimes across the Queen's Apartments. "Strange. There's no seal attached."<p>

Opposite Queen Anne, Mary Boleyn drops her embroidery and looks up as her sister turns the letter over in the palm of her hands. The sisters exchange a nervous glance as Anne picks open the envelope. A small, auburn, baby curl of hair tied with a blue silk ribbon slides into the palm of her hand. She gasps and fights down a great wave of nausea, instantly recognises Arthur's distinctive red hair. Just like his father's. Even cool, level headed Mary stifles a yelp of horror.

Forcing herself to be calm again, Anne flattens the letter out on a nearby table, and reads aloud in a shaky voice, as the women all gather around.

"Wrong again, Queen Anne. I never lied to you, and I never did trick you. You tried to trick me, with your brother, and your sister. Nothing gets passed me. I would introduce myself, but I doubt you even know my name. You were too busy with someone close to me. But, I will tell you this: You have until midnight tomorrow night to find your precious boy, or he will be no more. Same place. Yours truly."


	7. The Witching Hour

**Author's Note:** Again, a big thank you to everyone who has read, and reviewed my story. Your feedback is always greatly appreciated. So thank you. Also, by way of disclaimer, I don't own any of the characters, the show, and certainly not the history. Thank you, again, and I hope everyone continues to enjoy the story.

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><p><strong>Chapter Seven: The Witching Hour.<strong>

The three Boleyn's are joined by King Henry in the Queen's Apartments, the letter placed in the middle of them. All four of them look down expectantly at it, as though it'd magically reveal more information at any moment. Queen Anne sighs deeply, and finally tears her gaze away from the letter, and out of the window that over-looks her privy gardens. Far off in the distance, the Tower rises ominously, standing stark against the rich blue skies of the capital city. Somewhere, she knows, her son is held captive, and she has until midnight to find him, and bring him safely home. At the back of her restless mind, a thousand invisible clocks all race towards to the witching hour, while she is struck dumb, and motionless in her Palace. Her private musings are disturbed as the King rolls out a great sheet of vellum across the whole surface of the table. George, and Mary, peer at it curiously as a great plan of the Tower is splayed out before them. Henry's jabs his finger at various points of the fortress; the White Tower, the Armoury, the Jewel House, and finally, the dungeons and prison houses.

"Here, here, here and here," He gruffly states, pointing each one out. "Are all so heavily guarded at all times, that no one could get in, or out, without our knowing of it. If we don't rule them out, we should at least give priority to more vulnerable zones." He is met with nods and murmurs of agreement.

"What about the menagerie?" George asks, glancing up at King Henry who now stoops over the map.

"The only people who go in there are the servants of the Lord Lieutenant," He explains, eyes still on the floor plan, now looking over to where the wild animals are kept. "Again, its' far more likely the Prince is held somewhere more vulnerable, and away from dangerous animals; even the kidnapper would be at risk in there."

"Who is guarding my apartments within the Tower?" Anne asks, tapping the nail of her index finger over the marked spot on the map. Finally, Henry smiles.

"That whole block has been undergoing a complete renovation since before your Coronation," Henry explains. "But, the builders haven't been there since the Prince's birth, because of the public holidays. So, depending on whether Kingston has remembered that fact, and ordered his men to patrol the area, then it could be the place we're looking for. But, it seems too obvious, to me."

"What are the other weak spots?" George asks. Henry studies the map once again, before pointing out various floors, and various blocks.

"My father, in an attempt to get Henry VI canonised, set up a shrine in the Wakefield Tower, where the old King was murdered," He explains. "So thats' not guarded, and people can come and go, to visit the shrine; which no one ever does, because no one but my father ever wanted that old dote to be canonised. It would be nice, and out of the way."

A frown darkens Anne's brow as her mind twists in circles, meeting itself coming back from it's own train of thought. "But, the very fact of its' innocuousness makes it obvious," She states, frustratedly. "I think this person would have thought of that, and thought that that's the first place we would check."

"Anne, have you considered that perhaps this person now wants to be found?" Mary asks, leaning sideways to talk to her sister. "This is personal, and they have a score to settle with you. Now, I think, they're gearing up for a showdown with you, and they want it as badly as you want your child back. They mean it to be obvious."

Mary, always the more intuitive of them, is greeted with a round of nods in agreement. But, Henry is still fixating on the map, his mind working in over-drive to figure out plans of attack, escape routes and strategic military back up, should it be needed.

"Thats' all very well, and probably true," He states with a nod to Mary. "But my main concern is the safety of both the Queen, and the Prince. The guards will be in station, and I'm leaving nothing to chance. I want the guards tailing us, everywhere we go tonight."

"Enough!" Anne's voice is firm as she pushes back her chair and stands, her back straight and her head held high. "Enough. I am leaving for the Tower, to end this now, one way or the other. The three of you can follow me, in stages, but I want at least an hour to take a look around. If anything happens, our meeting point will be at the King's Apartments."

* * *

><p>The unmarked barge bobs gently along the river Thames. Queen Anne watches as the oars hit the surface of the water with a wet slap, before sinking below the undulating surface, pushing through the weeds and filth, and forcing the boat against the tide, further downstream. The boatman whistled tunelessly, stopping only to call out to his colleagues, as they went about ferrying the populace up and down the stinking waters of the river. All along the muddy banks, the people washed their clothes in the stream, probably making them dirtier than before they went in. Others even washed their babies in it, making Anne wrinkle her nose as they passed. Little wonder plague ravaged this city each season.<p>

Within the hour, the Tower finally loomed on the horizon. The White Tower rose vertically into the clear blue skies, dark against the slowly setting sun. A giant, foreboding edifice that reared up, and over the whole city, casting a whole district in shadow. Anne suppresses a shudder, and even the boatman stops whistling as if the grim fortress has suddenly sapped his will to live. As they sail under Tower Bridge, Anne averts her gaze from the spiked heads of Sir Thomas More and Bishop Fisher, who still adorn the bridge, warning the population of the terrible price of treason.

Finally, they emerge by Traitor's Gate, the most discreet entrance into the Tower, and where she could pass into the main buildings unobserved by the prying eyes of gossip mongers and tell-tales. Just as the boatman ties the barge up in the small harbour, the flint-faced visage of the Lieutenant of the Tower emerges from a small, narrow doorway set the limestone walls. He sweeps a small bow, and holds out his arm to the Queen as she disembarks from her barge.

"Your Majesty, I was asked to escort you to your private apartments," He informs her sombrely. "This way, if you please."

"Thank you, Sir William," Anne replies, grateful to be off the rocky barge and reacquainted with dry land, even if it is the Tower.

Anne follows the Lieutenant through the damp, dark corridors of the Tower. A mercifully short walk, that eventually brings her to the recently redecorated Queen's Chamber that over looks the City, and the winding river that she has just sailed down.

"My staff are at your service, Majesty," Sir William intones as he bows again, and backs out of the spacious apartments. Anne nods her thanks as retreats from view. "There are guards stationed at the end of the passage." With that, Kingston departs. His formal duties lie in the Prison section of the fortress.

Alone. She'd never been properly alone since before she met the King. Now, with businesses closing for the night, the fortress was gradually emptying. People were returning to their homes, their families, and their private lives; lived out in the comfort and security of their heavily fortified city. While she, the Queen of England, was left alone to play a deadly game to which she didn't know the rules, and in which the goal posts were constantly shifting, according to the will of her unknown adversaries.

To distract herself, she lets her gaze rove over the apartments. Sir William had had the good sense to provide fresh wine, with which she was more than glad to fortify her resolve to see out this long, turbulent night. However, before making her next move, and to fill the sudden emptiness she felt, she passes through each of the private apartments. Each room simply opens out on to the next, with no passageway. Some have smaller, connecting galleries, but there are no corridors, or hidden passages down which a person could hide.

Each room is as blank, and empty as the next. There are no notes, no clues; and not even the vaguest of pointers as to what she should do next. By now, she knows, the others will have arrived, and begun searching their own designated sections of the fortress. She could only hope that they were having better luck than her. With a resigned sigh, she backtracks the way she came, and back into her main apartments, and pours herself a goblet of wine. She takes her first deep drink, feels the liquid burning down her throat, warming her from inside and she breathes deeply, just as the sound of hurried footsteps come echoing down the outside passage. Alerted to the presence of another person, Anne jumps back up to her feet, her limbs strangely heavy, just as the door to her apartments is thrust open.

"Lady Jane!" Anne gasps, her voice sounding faraway to her own ears, as she reels from the shock. Her head spins furiously as it all, finally, seems to fall into place. Someone close to her, but over-looked by her. Someone who is bitter enough to take a child, because she has none of her own. Someone who could easily access the Royal Apartments, without attracting undue attention.

"I should have known," Anne gasps, her breathing suddenly ragged, and laboured. Her hands tremble violently as her vision blurs, as hot, angry tears spring to her eyes. The other woman stands and looks at her, horror struck.

"How could you!" Anne gasps, as sweat beads her brow. The heat. She has never known heat like it, and come over her so suddenly. She feels herself lurch to the left, and every time she tries to right herself, she over compensates, and merely pitches too far to the right. Her world has suddenly become like the stormy seas. Meanwhile, Jane looks at her in horror, her pale face suddenly flushed.

"Drop the wine!" Jane Parker shouts at the top of her voice. "For God's sake Anne, drop the wine."

Jane crosses the room and slaps the goblet of wine out of Anne's hands, sending it careering across the room. She wraps her arms around Anne's middle, trying to immobilise her, and holds her tightly.

"How much did you drink?" Jane demands, ignoring Anne's accusations. "Tell me how much you drank? It's poisoned!"

Anne struggles as violently as she can against Jane's iron grip. She can feel the life being choked out of her, like her throat is slowly closing over. She tries to scream, but the breath is caught in her lungs, and all the while, she burns with a sudden fever. She feels something cold being forced between her lips, and down her throat. Panicked, she tries to bite down on whatever it is, but suddenly, it hits the back of her throat, causing her to vomit violently.

As the burning, acrid sludge hits the floor, Anne suddenly feels her head clearing. But the burning continues, and every bone in her body aches.

"Water!" Jane screams out at the top of her voice. She still has Anne in her arms, holding her around the middle, making her bring up more of the poison. Her free hand, the one she pushed down her sister in law's throat, drips with the fluids which she casually wipes on the curtains at the window. Finally, the wide eyed face of a Yeoman appears at the open door, who nearly faints on the spot when he surveys the scene her encounters. "Fetch clean, fresh water for the Queen, now!" Jane commands.

Anne, spent, slumps to the floor with a groan. A dull, pounding ache throbs at her temples. Reeling from what just happened, she struggles to make sense of it all, while her stomach still churns from whatever it was that was in that wine. She watches as Jane darts from the room, but as Anne goes to run after her, her knees buckle and she sinks back to the floor, as weak and helpless as a newborn. She wants to scream out in frustration as Jane's running footsteps vanish down the corridor. But, no sooner do those echoes fade from hearing, they return.

"Here, drink this. Its' pure water, with some salts added," Jane explains hurriedly as she lifts the goblet to Anne's dry, cracked lips, urging her to drink.

Despite her reservations, Anne cannot stop herself from gulping down the cool, invigorating water. The heat subsides from her body, and she feels her lungs, and head clearing quickly. Once the goblet is drained, Jane pulls her away from the stinking mess and into an ante chamber, where her great bed lies.

"I.. I... I don't understand," Anne's voice is weak. "Why are you doing this? Whats' going on? Where is my baby?"

"You really think I did it, don't you?" Jane asks, her brow knitted into a frown. But, her voice is light, almost mildly amused at the allegation.

"You've always hated me-"

"Not enough to hang for you!"

"But then who?"

"Never mind that now," Jane starts bustling about the room, and wiping the sick off her gown. "George told me you were here, and the King himself told me to tell Kingston you were on your way. I know for a fact he did not send that wine here, so it must have come from the only other person who knew you would be coming, and thats' the same person who has Prince Arthur. When I saw your face, and the way you were falling about after just one drink, I knew it had to be poisoned. You must believe me, Anne. I did not take your child."

Anne, feeling like the rug has been pulled from under her feet, just looks back into the face of her sister in law. Hope draining out of her faster than the life force of a plague sufferer. After being so convinced that Jane had done the deed, the labyrinth of possibilities seems wider, and more infinitely complex than ever before. Jane kneels before Anne, who sits with her body sagging, on the edge of the bed, and squeezes her hands.

"But, I think I know who has done this," She states, looking straight into Anne's eyes. "I think I know what we must do. But, you need to get as much of your strength back as possible, do you understand?"

Anne, weary and aching from the tainted wine still, nods. The whole world has taken on a surrealism that she struggles to get her head around.

"I don't understand anything, any more," She sighs. "If you know who it is, just tell me, please!"

The door to the Queen's apartments burst open again, but it is only Kingston's Yeoman who was sent to fetch a pitcher of fresh water. He sets the tray down on the table, and sweeps an overly gallant bow to the two women.

"At your service, your majesty," He bleats, blushing to the roots of his hair to be before his Queen. "My Lady Rochford," He bows again to Jane.

"God's death, boy, can't you see we're busy!" Jane snaps at him before turning back to the Queen. The abashed Yeoman turns like a whipped schoolboy, about to slink discreetly from the chamber. But, almost as an afterthought, Jane calls out again.

"On second thoughts, stay. We're going to need you."

The young man's face lights up brighter than a coastal beacon, and puffs out his chest in an effort to be more macho. Jane sighs impatiently as he takes up post, again while Anne slugs down water in a most un-Queenly fashion.

"Listen, both of you," Jane commands imperviously. "Time is running out."


	8. Fire Fight

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all the reviews and comments, it is greatly appreciated. Fingers crossed, the big reveal won't come as a huge disappointment, but you know, I couldn't make it too obvious! Anyway, before pressing on with the penultimate chapter of the story, I want to reiterate that I own none of the characters, history, or the TV show.

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><p><strong>Chapter Eight: Fire Fight.<strong>

The flickering yellow glow of the torch flame bounces erratically off the damp, stone walls of the fortress as Jane Parker leads the way through a labyrinthine maze of passages. The echoes of their footsteps ricochet all around them, as Queen Anne, Jane, and their new guard, hurry onwards. Anne's body aches, and her limbs still feel like lead after almost ingesting a poison, but she manages to keep up. The breath seems to burn her chest, and her heartbeat hammers painfully against her ribs. But, with all the force of her will, she urges herself ever onwards. Up narrow, tight, twisting stairwells; along broad, interconnected galleries, and along every rat infested ruin contained with the walls of the Tower.

Every room they entered, Jane would wave the torch around, lighting up every dark crevice and corner, before cursing heavily when she found it empty. After what seems an eternity, they come to a long, oak panelled gallery at the top of the White Tower, close to where the King's Privy Chambers are situated. Henry never uses them, so Anne has no inkling as to where they are exactly. Jane, holding the torch aloft once again, looks dismayed.

"This is impossible," She pants, her eyes wide, reflecting the flames. She shakes her head, sadly. Anne is about to reply, when she is cut off.

"Whats' this?" The guard asks, pointing to something blue, wrapped around one of the support beams near the wall.

The two women take a step closer. Anne reaches out tentatively, and picks the blue silk ribbon up, letting its' long, trailing tendril of silk run smoothly through the her fingers. Memories swamp her as though she were re-living those moments all over again. She is at the joust, and watching as Henry charges down the list, her blue silk favours fluttering in the breeze as he crashes into Henry Norris, before his horse comes rolling down on top of him. Anne gasps, and reels backwards at the force of the sudden recollection.

"I gave this to Henry, on the day of his accident," She explains, that all too familiar sense of disbelief closing in on her once again.

"Then its' a clue," Jane yelps, almost dropping the lit torch.

"Its' a bit bloody vague!" Anne retorts. "What on earth are we supposed to make of this?"

"Your Majesty, look," The Yeomen points to the far wall, and the two women fall silent as they follow the line of his gaze. Beneath an oak panelled door set in the wall, a thin strip of yellow firelight can just be made out. Anne would never have seen the door, but for the light.

"Now is your chance to shine, boy," Jane winks at him. "In you go!"

"Me?"

"I'll go," Anne immediately pushes past them both, already reaching out for the handle. But, jolted back to is chivalric senses, the Yeoman holds his pike a little straighter and runs after her.

"Stand back, Your Majesty," He instructs her firmly, before taking a running, violent kick at the door. The resounding crash, and splintering of wood causes Jane to reel back. Dust from the unseen roof beams over head comes cascading down in thick, swirling clouds, that block their view of the new room. Anne waves her arms, clearing the choking dust from her eyes as she bursts into the newly revealed chamber. As she does so, she collides with something large, and solid that sends her lurching to the side, before falling to the ground. Whatever it was she hit, falls with a heavy thump beside her with a shrill, piercing scream.

"Madge!" Anne cries out as she rolls over, spotting her dull witted Lady in Waiting picking herself up from the floor.

"Oh sweet Jesus, I was not expecting this!" Jane exclaims in shock as she surveys the scene before her. Her eyes are wide in shock, disbelief, and incredulity. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Anne turns to face Jane as the guard helps her back to her feet. She can scarcely believe what she is witnessing, but Madge is plain for all to see. Her face is stricken with fear. White, and drawn, with dark circles lining her eyes. She backs away, her jaw flapping open and closed, her words seemingly trapped, as tears begin to pour down her face.

"Madge, what is this?" Anne laughs, refusing to accept what her mind is forcing her to believe. "Come on Madge, you can explain all this, right?"

Madge continues to back away, trying to make herself as small as possible under the glare of the three intruders.

"Th-this isn't-" She stammers.

"What it looks like," Jane Parker finishes the sentence for her, her bewilderment replaced with an eviscerating scorn. "Well then girl, gather what little wit you have, and explain yourself!"

Madge flinches under the force of each word as though it were a slap in the face. Her eyes, wild with terror, continue to dart from one incredulous face, to the other as they leak a constant stream of tears.

"After I left the joust," She chokes. "I saw her do it. I saw her attack the wet nurse. It wasn't me, I swear to God, it wasn't me. But she saw me there, and she was about to do to me, what she did to the wet nurse!"

Anne crosses the room and grips Madge by her shoulders, forcing the terrified girl to look directly at her.

"Madge, if someone has been forcing you to act against you will, then we will take that into consideration. But you must tell me everything, please!" Anne pleads with her. She is beyond caring about who did what. All she wants is her baby back. Behind her, Jane suddenly retrieves the situation.

"I was right all along," Jane cries out. "Look, Madge. Was it Mary Talbot who took the baby?"

Anne suddenly lets go of Madge, who crumples to the floor like a sack of turnips at her feet.

"The Countess of Northumberland?" Anne asks, no less incredulous than when Madge had seemed the culprit.

"Think about it, Anne!" Jane sighs, exasperated. "She tried to get a divorce from Henry Percy because of, according to her, he is legally married to you. She is now trapped in a loveless marriage, with a husband who loathes her, because of you. She was pushing Jane Seymour under the King's nose, just to spite you. Then you ruin her plans by having a son!"

"No!" Anne shakes her head. "This doesn't make sense. It was the Privy Council that threw out her divorce petition, not me! And if it is true, then it certainly doesn't explain why this silly little bitch has been helping her!"

All three turn back to Madge, still crumpled on the floor. Her body heaving with sobs, causing Anne to roll her eyes. But soon, Madge manages to compose herself enough to finally speak.

"When I tried to get to her, she said she'd kill the Prince herself, and blame it on me. No one, she said, would take the word of a mere lady in waiting over that of a Countess. Then she said that if I didn't help her, she would see to it that her husband's men would kill me, and my family," She falteringly explains, as comprehension finally dawns in Anne's mind.

"So you took my favours from Henry, when you said you got chased out of the pavilion by Suffolk. You left the rattle on Cromwell's desk. You tipped her off that Mary, and George would be at the Abbey. You planted the letter in my Privy Chamber. And... Oh Lord, Madge, don't tell me you poisoned the wine?" Anne sags under the weight of the revelation, her face a picture of betrayal and hurt.

"I swear I knew nothing of poison!" Madge blurts out. Jane snorts in derision. "She gave me the wine to put in your Chambers. I didn't know it was poisoned! I only tried to protect myself, and my family!"

"For God's sake, Madge!" Anne screams at her. "Do you ever stop to think? I can't believe what you have done to me, what you have put me through, all because you were afraid of childish threats!"

Madge quails again, but soon recovers herself. She fixes Jane with a hard stare. "Lady Rochford seems to know a lot about what's going on."

"Oh, don't you try that tack, woman!" Jane hisses at her, her face contorted in disgust. "The Countess wrote to me months ago, one scorned wife to another, thinking I'd come flocking to her standard to help bring my own sister in law down. She wanted me to go around spreading vile rumours that I'd found Anne and George in bed together, for heaven's sake. It didn't take a genius to work out. All I needed was the proof that it was Mary Talbot who took the Prince, and that's why I came here tonight!"

"And you didn't tell me?" Anne cries out, exasperatedly. "You didn't tell me any of this!"

"You were pregnant with Arthur when the rumours were suggested. As for the rest, I needed the proof before pointing the finger of blame at anyone!," Jane retorts. "And before we get completely side tracked, I suggest Lady Shelton tells us where he is right away, less she wants us to hang her here, and now!"

"Madge, please just take us to him," Anne pleads, turning back to her former lady in waiting.

Slowly, Lady Shelton picks herself back up, and leads them to another connecting door, which opens onto a narrow gallery. Beyond that gallery, is another wide chamber, at the far end of which, sits a cradle. Nothing like the great cradle in the Royal Nursery, this one is wood, and sparse. A small, piercing cry comes from the child within it, and Anne recognises it instantly.

"Arthur!" She screams at the top of her voice, sending an echo reverberating down the gallery. She launches herself down the gallery, running as fast as she can. All the aches in her body melt away as relief, love, and the ferocious instinct to protect her child completely consume her. But as she careers into the main gallery, something comes crashing down on top of her, pulling her hard on to the cold flagstones, off which her head bounces, making stars explode before her eyes. All the while, a heavy, dead weight presses down on top of her, pinning her arms behind her back.

"Oh no you don't," A voice whispers, almost seductively, in her ear.

Anne kicks out as hard as she can. Before she can do anything else, Jane Parker has come crashing into the Chamber, still with the torch in her hands, and kicks at the woman who has Anne pinned to the ground. As she rolls off, Anne feels a rush of air into her lungs, and as though a brick wall has been removed from her ribs. Over her, Jane Parker receives a hefty blow to her head, causing her to drop the torch. Immediately, flames start to lap at a dry, threadbare tapestry on the left wall, and fills the room with a thick, pungent smoke.

"Get the baby, quick!" Jane roars through the dense smoke. But the Countess was too fast for Anne. Mary Talbot soon stands over over the cradle, guarding Prince Arthur like a crazed lioness.

"Why?" Anne screams in confusion as she trips while running to the cradle.

"Don't you know?" Mary retorts angrily. "Don't you know what you have subjected me to?"

"How is that Arthur's fault?"

But without waiting for an answer, Anne launches herself at the Countess, and pulls at her hair, twisting great clumps of it, and dragging her across the floor, towards the wall that is quickly consumed by fire. Jane reacts immediately, and grabs Prince Arthur, now screaming at the top of his smoke choked lungs. She nestles the baby close to her breast, and darts back down the gallery through which they came, and out of Anne's sight.

The danger over, Anne releases the struggling, squealing Countess, and made to run after Jane. As she reached the mouth of the gallery, however, a flaming roof timber crashes down from above, barring her way. Cursing, she spins on her heals, and runs full tilt towards the opposite end of the chamber. Mary Talbot, realising the danger she is in, follows suit, trying to pull Anne back into the burning chamber.

"We'll both burn if you keep doing that!" Anne screams out over the roar of the flames that now fill the room.

"I'll burn, anyway, why should I care about you?"

Anne lashes out as hard as she can with her fists. Once again, she sends the Countess reeling backwards into the chamber, and she vanishes in a thick cloud of acrid smoke. Seizing her small opportunity, she pelts through another connecting door, and finds only another spiral stairwell. Without even thinking, she starts climbing upwards, without looking back, until she opens out on to the balustrade of the Tower. The fresh air hits her full in the face. Anne collapses to the cold floor, breathing in great gulps of the sweet air like a fish fresh out of a river. Her eyes sting from the smoke, as tears stream down her dirty, sooty face. Weak, she can only crawl along the balustrade, and eventually prop herself up against the ramparts of the Tower. From the floor below her, she can hear the sound of crashing timbers as the fire consumes the whole of the top floor of the White Tower, now. But, she isn't afraid. Jane got Arthur safely out of the Chamber, before the flames took hold. Her child will be safe, that much she knows. She doesn't care about Madge, or the crazed Countess of Northumberland, driven beyond despair by the contempt of her husband, Henry Percy.

Anne opens her stinging, bleary eyes, and looks up at the heavens high above her. She knows that she cannot get back down to the ground, from here. She knows that the fire will soon consume the support timbers, and the roof will cave in, bringing her right back down with it, and she will die.

"Whore!"

Anne is jolted back to her senses, and finds herself peering into the livid, smoke blackened face of Mary Talbot.

"Why have you done this?" Anne asks, completely unafraid of her. "What have I done to you? Is it my fault that your husband is infatuated with me, and loathes you?"

Mary makes no immediate answer. She stands, her gown in singed tatters, her hair a wild bird's nest of a tangle, and her eyes unfocussed.

"Because you have taken everything from me," She croaks, her body trembling. "You took my husband from me. You used him, and then discarded him like last night's rushes. Now, he hates me. And you wouldn't even set me free of him!"

"That wasn't my fault!" Anne counters as she painfully climbs to her feet, stepping towards the Countess to confront her properly. "That was the decision of the Privy Council!"

"They did it to protect you!" Mary retorts, tears of anger trickling down her face, leaving smudgy tracks in her sooty cheeks. "My miserable life, and my miserable marriage had to be declared valid, so your life of luxury could go on undisturbed. Your happiness could only come at the cost of mine, and something had to give, Anne. You cannot have it all!"

"You selfish bitch!" Anne screams in a rage as she lunges herself at Mary. Soon, the two women are fighting like dogs, scratching viciously as one another, and lashing out with feet and fists. Mary gets the advantage, and pushes Anne over to the balustrade, and forces her head over the precipice. Below her, is a sheer drop of over two hundred foot. With a roar of effort, Anne rolls herself, and Mary away from the edge, and manages to get out from under her. But, before she can do anything else, another person appears seemingly from nowhere. Mary doesn't see Madge Shelton, who bursts through the doorway like a raging bull. But Madge hurls herself at the Countess, and shoves her as hard as she can.

Mary Talbot's body hits the rail of the balustrade with a sickening crack. She seems to fold backwards over the rail, and Anne watches in nauseated horror as her nemesis topples over the edge of the rail with the force of Madge's shove, before she sails through the air, down the vertical drop on the other side of the balustrade, and out of sight.

It seems to take forever. Anne's screws up her face as she braces herself for it, and finally, it comes. It sounds like a snail that has been accidentally trodden on. A sickening crunch as Mary's body hits the flagstones, far, far below the balustrade. Then, it is over. A silence punctuated by the crackling of the fire, which seems to have died down, now. Anne doesn't know for sure. The whole world seems to slide away from her. Someone, a man, shouts out her name. "Henry," She whispers. Strong, muscular arms, arms of a keen jouster, close over her. His scent is familiar. Her husband has come for her. She knows she is safe, as she lets herself slip into consciousness.


	9. Hope Springs EternalEpilogue

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, and made it such a pleasure to write. I really, really appreciate it, so thank you again. This is the final chapter of "Hope Springs Eternal," but the epilogue contains a rough idea I have for a sequel, which I may begin work on, if I can flesh it out a little more. Again, I own none of the characters, TV show, or history. Thank you, again.

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine: Hope Springs Eternal.<strong>

Smoke inhalation, poisoned wine, a hefty bang on the head, and finally a cat fight that left livid purple bruises streaking down her face. Queen Anne had borne it all in the previous night. But, as she sat in the Royal Nursery, rocking the Prince in her arms, she knew she would do it all again in a trice, to protect the child in her arms.

Even now, a full day later, she can barely remember the King carrying her down from the balustrades of the Tower. The young guard who'd escorted she, and Jane Parker, to where the Prince was being held, had raised the alarm as quickly as possible, and the fire was extinguished by a chain of Yeomen and worried citizens, all passing buckets of water up to the spot. Still, the fire had burned long into the early hours of the morning, and the whole top floor of the White Tower was gutted by the flames.

What remained of Mary Talbot was removed from Tower Hill, even before the sun had risen. She's free now, Anne thinks to herself. Madge, was an altogether more complicated proposition. One that Anne simply didn't want to think about, right now. Not while she sat in the dying rays of early evening summer sun, rocking her son in her arms, singing him back to sleep. But, she will be shown mercy. Blackmail is hard to resist, and Madge was never mentally robust.

Countless times, maids had come in and tried to compel the Queen to relinquish Prince Arthur into their care. Each time, her heart had raced with fear, and she had clutched him all the tighter. She will let go of him, eventually. Talbot won't win. Anne won't let herself be ruled by fear for long. But just for today, she wants to hold him, and gaze at him, all day long.

Prince Arthur grizzled all through the first night. He had been tossed about like a rag doll for the last week, but he knew Anne's scent. He remembered the sound of her voice. Something deep inside him remembered his mother, because he is part of her like the second side of a coin. She soothes him with the fact of her physical presence.

Arthur won't remember what happened. He will blossom, and flourish, and he need never know about Mary Talbot. He has his whole life ahead of him, and hope springs eternal when a babe is born as strong, and as resilient as he.

Even George and Jane are talking, now. They had talked, and cried into each other's shoulders. They'd each got the wrong end of the stick. They loved each other, really, and they just had a funny way of showing it. Then, the two had disappeared into their chambers. Anne listened, with an embarrassed grin on her face, to the slow, rhythmic thump of their bed's headboard banging against the connecting wall.

Henry arrives at dusk. His leg is bad. The wound from the joust seems to have reopened of its' own accord.

"Did you knock it, last night?" Anne asks, as she tears her gaze away from Arthur to look over the weeping sore.

"I honestly don't know," He answers, shaking his head sadly. "I could have done, and I was so angry, so pent up with fury I wouldn't have noticed."

She can barely remember Henry picking her up from the balustrade of the White Tower. He had picked her up as though she were a fallen, autumn twig. It'd been so long since she had felt those arms around her. It lets her know that they love each other, still.

"Not to worry, my love," Anne assures him. "Get doctor Butts to drain out the poison, and it will soon heal again."

All wounds heal, in the end.

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><p><strong>Epilogue.<strong>

**July, 1537 (One Year Later).**

Anne lies back against the stout trunk of an old oak tree, sheltering from the heat of the afternoon sun. She exhales slowly, relishing the cool shelter beneath the thick, green boughs and glances up at the dappled sunlight that filters in shafts through the gaps in the leaves. She dare not close her eyes with Henry's hunting hounds so close by. As soon as she shows signs of being asleep, the great beasts will bound over, and start licking and slobbering at her face. Her belly, swollen once again with child, doesn't allow for hasty retreats.

Arthur is nearby. Once he'd been safely returned to her, a master craftsman in London had made for him a special chair, with wheels connected to it. An ingenious contraption, meaning that even as Arthur got too big to carry, he could simply be put in the chair and a Lady could push him. Now, he is standing. His auburn curls made golden by the sun, as he grips the back of the chair for dear life. He is looking all about him, his deep blue eyes darting hither and thither, getting the lay of the land at his wobbly feet. He is debating whether or not to have another go at taking his first steps.

Princess Elizabeth stands over him, her arms outstretched. She is an old pro at the walking business, now. And she is passing the talent on to her baby brother. She is a dutiful sister.

"Darling," Henry's voice takes her by surprise.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you," He explains as he eases himself down at her side.

"He's going to walk!" Anne grins and nods at their son. Henry laughs as he watches his little Prince, with pride shining in his eyes.

"He is the best son a man could wish for, King or no," He sighs wistfully as he puts his arm around Anne's shoulders.

"Oh!" Anne starts with a gasp. "I promised Jane Parker I would visit her in her confinement. The child is due any day now."

She starts to gather herself up, but Henry places a hand on her shoulder, stopping her. She looks at him, and senses the worry that he is trying to mask from her. After ten years together, she knows him too well. "Harry," She reverts to her old, familiar pet name for him. She addresses him as a wife, worried for her husband. "Sweetheart, what is it?"

"Its' probably nothing," He smiles, his eyes twinkling again. "But, there was an illegal assembly in Yorkshire over the weekend. They're making a few demands, and causing a bit of trouble."

"What kind of demands?"

"That I cast you off," He replies, bluntly. "That I stop the reforms. That I hand Cromwell over to them, to face their version of justice. That I return England to the Holy See. That I renounce Prince Arthur as my son."

Anne looks over at him, utterly aghast.

"Send the Royal Army out immediately, raise men from the city and pack them off to the North immediately!" But surely, Anne thinks, this has already been done. "Be done with these traitors!"

"They have an army of ten thousand men," Henry flushes with embarrassment. Anne feels her blood turn to ice in her veins. "Sweetheart, do not worry yourself. I will ride north myself, and deal with this once, and for all."

"Henry, no!"

"It will be all right!" Henry assures her, giving her shoulders a tight squeeze. "They won't take up arms against their King. And when I get there, I will hang them by the roadside in every town, village and hamlet in the whole of York."

"If I wasn't with child, I'd come and help you," She manages a dry laugh. Surely, no rabble of peasants would defeat her husband.

Henry heaves a great bark of laugher. He doesn't doubt that she would. But, he calms and kisses her, and bids her to go and visit her sister in law. Nothing will change.

Before she walks away, Anne surveys the scene before her. Her children play before their faffing nurses. The hunting hounds snuffle at the undergrowth, picking up the scent of nothing in particular. The sun continues to beat down on the earth. Insects buzz in the languid heat, while butterflies hover among the rose beds. And, in Yorkshire, a vast, ever swelling army of rebels amass.

Everything is fine. Nothing is as it should be.


End file.
